Magenta
by BethXP
Summary: John is introduced to a new Holmes and is rather taken by them, much to Sherlock's displeasure.
1. Chapter 1

It started with the closing of a particularly exhausting case. John had spent the past thirteen hours chasing an escaped convict across the South East and all he wanted to do now was to collapse onto his bed and let the darkness engulf him into a dreamless sleep. In the taxi back to the flat he was already debating whether or not to have a soak in the tub, as it would mean extra effort in preparing the bath, but it would be incredibly relaxing, and that was what he needed.

John had this argument with himself silently as Sherlock sat beside him gazing out of the window. He, too, needed a rest, not that he would admit it. Maybe John would run a bath for Sherlock instead and force him to spend half an hour with a few candles, bubbles, and a good book. He would probably find a way of setting fire to the bubbles knowing him!

The taxi pulled up at 221b and John paid the driver as Sherlock trotted inside and up the stairs. John followed, only two or three seconds behind, and began to give Sherlock his domestic orders.

"Right you," he said to the figure stretched across the sofa as he went into the kitchen to put the kettle on, "I want you to have a bath tonight. The relaxing kind. We can put on some classical music, use the best bath soap, you can even have candles if you really want! I just think you need a little 'you time'."

"Sounds lovely," said a female voice. John jolted his head round and looked again at the figure lying quite still on the sofa. He realised now that it was not Sherlock lying there, although it was the spitting image of him. The hair was just as dark and curly, but it was longer, passing the shoulders and stopping at the breast pocket on the black blazer they were wearing. The eyes were the same colour, but the lashes were longer, and the lips were much more feminine and darkened with the addition of red lipstick. The clothing was dark and smart casual. The fitted blazer and skinny jeans accentuated their curves and the knee high laced boots were incredibly sexy.

"Who the hell are you?" John asked as he pulled the gun out of his back pocket and aimed it directly at her temple.

The woman stood up and faced John square in the face.

"I could you ask the same question."

There is the sound of footsteps and they both turn to see Sherlock appearing from the bedroom corridor.

"Sherlock?" They say in unison, which makes them look at each other again, staring daggers.

Sherlock stared at the woman.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Could you ask your _buddy_ here to lower the gun? It's making me uncomfortable." It seemed these two knew each other rather well as there was a tone in her voice – almost mocking – that John did not understand, but Sherlock seemed to respond to it.

"John," he flicked his fingers as a signal for John to put the gun away, and reluctantly he did. "Again, I shall ask, what do you want?"

"Just dropping by to see how you are," she shrugged as she dropped back onto the sofa and crossed her legs.

"You never do that," Sherlock responded coldly.

"Well maybe I should," she replied equally cooly. "Who is this?" She nodded her head towards John, who was standing dumbfounded in the middle of the room.

"Dr John Watson. We live here together."

Her eyes open wide.

"Okay Sherlock, I don't expect a weekly newsletter but not telling me you had a boyfriend is-"

"No, no, I'm not- We're not- We are _flatmates_," John stumbled.

"He assists on my cases."

"Oh I see," she smirked, "mum will be interested to hear that!"

"So you are here to spy on me," Sherlock said unimpressed.

"Sorry, mum?" John tried to ask, but Sherlock and the woman were ignoring him now.

"You do realise _Mycroft_ exists on this planet for that purpose?"

She pulled a face.

"You would be surprised how little Mycroft tells mum these days."

"No I'm sorry," John said, louder this time to ensure he was heard, "are you a Holmes?"

The stranger held out her hand and gave John an over friendly smile.

"Magenta Holmes, younger sister of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, nice to meet you. I take it Sherlock has never mentioned me."

"No he hasn't. Sherlock how could you not tell me you had a sister?"

"Didn't seem important," he shrugged.

"I take it you know about Mycroft? He makes it his business to know everything in our lives," she said sarcastically.

"Yes, he – er – kidnapped me the day after I met Sherlock." Magenta nodded to herself, apparently that was normal behaviour.

"So what can I do for you this time Magenta?" Sherlock asked with a sigh, giving the impression this wasn't the first time she had turned up on his doorstep.

"I am having problems with my case."

"Your case? Are you a detective too?"

"No, I am a defence attorney. One of the best in the business." _Well, she certainly has the family humbleness_, thought John to himself.

"No."

"Sherlock!" John began to defend the young lady with maybe a little too much enthusiasm. "At least hear her out; you might be able to help. She is your sister, how could you turn her down flat like th-"

"It's alright John," Magenta placed a calming hand on his arm, "he always says no at first. He doesn't approve of some of my cliental." John pulled her a questioning look. "Being the best in the business means I am expensive," she explained, "and the only people who can afford expensive lawyers-"

"-are criminals," Sherlock butted in. She glares at him.

"-are not always of a savoury nature. I never accept a case where I believe the defendant would be dangerous if not imprisoned. I would never let a murderer go free no matter how much they paid me!"

"Oh that's good of you," retorted Sherlock. Magenta shot him another murderous look.

"But if it is a petty crime or I believe them to be innocent, I will fight tooth and nail to get them off. It's rather fun really, and it always feels good to win." _It's just another way to feed the Holmes ego isn't it?_ John thought, but he did not say so out loud. Magenta turned to her brother once more, placing her hands together as if she was unconsciously pleading with him. "Sherlock, I need you to prove my client innocent of murder."

"No, I will not help you set a guilty man free."

"Do you really think so little of me?"

"You are a Holmes, of course I do!"

"So are you," John interrupted. Sherlock's fingers curled into fists and his lip twitched. Out of the corner of his eye, John could have sworn he had seen Magenta shake her head ever so slightly, as if to say not to go there.

"What if I were to say he is innocent. _I believe_ he is innocent."

Sherlock studied her intently, searching for something that could prove or disprove her statement. Apparently he found it.

"What is the case?" Magenta produced a thick beige file from the bag John had not noticed resting on the arm of the chair, and she slid it across the coffee table for Sherlock to read. "_Tell_ me about the case." She rolled her eyes and took back the folder, opening it up and pulling out a series of photographs.

"Maria Thompson," she pointed to an image of a middle aged corpse, "was found murdered in her living room as her husband," she pointed to a second mug shot of a middle aged man, very professional looking, "was upstairs in the bath. No signs of forced entry."

"How did she die?" Sherlock tilted his head to the side to get a different perspective on the corpse photograph.

"Stabbed in the neck. The husband was arrested pretty much immediately."

"He was the only one in the house?"

"Yes. He claims he heard a knock at the door, but he wasn't sure and so he ignored it, assuming either his wife would answer it or he was mistaken. The neighbour who was mowing the lawn at the time, however, said that no one came up the drive.

"And what makes you think he is innocent?" asked John with the air of sympathy that Sherlock so often lacked.

"Because he is a professor who teaches biochemistry at an established university. If he were to kill his wife he would have planned it out meticulously, ensuring he had an alibi, probably making it look like an accident."

"I see. So how would you like us to help?"

"Us?" She raised her eyebrow. "Sorry, it's just I am used to my brother working alone. I need proof that Simon – the husband – didn't do it. Anything to put doubt into the jury's mind." John reached for the file.

"Well we can look through-"

"No need," interrupted Sherlock. Magenta smiled.

"You've done it haven't you, I knew I could count on you! Tell me."

"Isn't it obvious?" Blank faces were his only reply. "If your client is telling the truth, it means he _did_ hear someone knocking on that door." Magenta's eyes lit up.

"Of course! Sherlock you are a genius!" She jumped up and wrapped her arms around him. Sherlock prized her off with a look of disgust and fear of the human contact.

"Would you care to explain to the lesser folk?" John asked timidly, always slightly embarrassed by his lesser intelligence.

"If someone knocked it means the neighbour is lying, and why would the neighbour lie? Because he had something to hide!" Magenta explained excitedly. She picked up her things and rammed them into her bag without the least bit of care. "I shall call my team and get them to investigate the neighbour. We are sure to find something. Thank you Sherlock." She placed a kiss on his cheek before saying very sincerely, "it was good to see you." John could not understand the sadness in her tone. "And it was good to meet you Dr John Watson; I do hope we meet again." She pushed out her lips in a pout very slightly and John was taken aback as the light danced in her dark hair and eyes.

"Itwasnicetomeetyoutoo," he blurted out, unable to take his eyes off her.

"Goodbye," she grinned, and with a delicate wave of the hand she disappeared down the stairs.

The two men sat in silence for some minutes before John broke the quiet.

"So that was your sister."

"Always the one to note the _small_ details, aren't you John?"

"She's not much like you is she?" John said, ignoring Sherlock's sarcasm.

"Mycroft saw to that," he mumbled.

"Sorry?"

"She is the closest to a human we Holmes' get."

"_You_ are human Sherlock," John stated matter-of-factly. "I just mean… she smiles, seems chirpier. She hugged and kissed you!" Sherlock pulled a face of disgust again. "How come you never mentioned her?"

"Have you ever needed to know about her in our time together?"

"Yes, ten minutes ago when I could have blown her head off!"

"That doesn't count."

"Why should it matter if it is relevant to a case or not anyway? You told me abut Mycroft didn't you?"

"No, Mycroft told you about Mycroft," Sherlock corrected, getting frustrated, but John wanted to know more about this new Holmes.

"So she is a lawyer."

"Again John you are a stickler for details."

"And you help her with cases?"

"Only when she asks and only when the defendant is wrongly accused."

"How can you be so sure that that Simon guy was innocent?" John asked.

"Because I trust her intelligence. If Magenta tells you someone is innocent, then they are innocent."

John was about to say how aesthetically pleasing she was, but he thought twice and decided against it. He wasn't sure how protective a brother Sherlock was with her and so mentioning how attractive she was was perhaps not the best thing to do. Instead he got up and ran the bath he had been looking forward to in the cab drive home.


	2. Chapter 2

"Sherlock," John said after practically a full day of silence, "can I ask you something?"

"Oh thank god!" Sherlock sighed as he poured a quantity of liquid into a beaker from a bottle labelled 'toxic'. "You have been fidgeting all day debating whether to ask me whatever is on your mind and it's been getting on my nerves! What is it?" He agitated the beaker slightly.

"Well, I was wondering," John bit his lip, maybe this wasn't appropriate, maybe there was a reason for Sherlock's behaviour, but surely then he would explain himself? Well he had started to ask the question now so he might as well finish and face the consequences as they come. "Would it be alright if I were to take Magenta out on a date?"

Sherlock placed everything in his hands gently down on the table and sat silently for an uncomfortable amount of time. _I've gone too far, just forget about it and apologise, Sherlock will get over it._

"Both you and she are grown adults John; you may do what you like." There was something in his voice that told John he was more unhappy about this than he was letting on. It was cold and void of all emotion.

"You know what, never mind, I won't ask her if it bothers you."

"It doesn't," snapped Sherlock. "Why should it bother me what you do in your spare time?" He resumed his experimenting, frowning as he did so.

"Okay then," John said wearily. "Thanks." He stared at Sherlock for a while, shifting from one foot to the other. "Could I have her number?"

"What?"

"I can't call her without her number."

"Oh, yes, of course. It will be on my phone somewhere." He waved in the direction of his dressing gown. John searched through the pockets until he found Sherlock's mobile. Sure enough, under 'M', a contact number for Magenta was there.

"This is a work number!"

Sherlock shrugged. "So?"

John rolled his eyes as he typed the number into his own phone and dialled.

"Hi, yes, this is John Watson; could I speak to Magenta Holmes please? – Yes I will hold -" John noticed Sherlock shift in his seat so he decided to take the rest of the call upstairs. The ridiculous hold music stopped. "Hi is this Magenta? – Hi this is John Watson, we met at Sherlock's yesterday – no, he's fine – well, I was wondering if you fancied going for a drink sometime – with me – yeah… like a date – brilliant! – Tomorrow? – Sure I can pick you up arou – oh right okay – sure you can come here first – that's fine – okay then I will see you tomorrow – bye!"

As John hung up he heard a patter of footsteps rush down the stairs – Sherlock must have been listening at the door.

"We are meeting tomorrow," John told Sherlock unnecessarily when he got downstairs. "She wants to come here first as we are closer to her work than her flat, if that's okay?"

"What? Yes, yes, fine." Sherlock pretended to be engaged with the television.

The doorbell rang and John rushed down the stairs with only one sock on.

"Nope, don't worry, I will get that," he called to Sherlock as he opened the door to his date. "Hi," he breathed as he stepped aside to let her in. Magenta looked very different to their introduction yesterday. Instead of her fashionable jeans and boots, she was now wearing a pin striped suit, her skirt hugging her hips and her shirt pulled in at the waist by a thick black belt with a silver buckle. Her hair was tied up into a ponytail and the striking make up had been replaced with neutral colours. It was the first time John could actually picture her as a lawyer. "You look beautiful."

"I look horribly plain. But if I went to work in my biker gear no one would take me seriously." There was a hint of annoyance when she said this but she still smiled, tilting her head away from him shyly.

"You have a motorbike?" Magenta giggled at John's boyish response.

"Indeed I do, maybe I will let you ride on the back of it sometime," she winked. John swallowed hard, conscious that Sherlock may be listening.

"Do you want to wait upstairs? I will be ready in two minutes."

"Sure," she replied as she frowned at John's exposed toes. She didn't say anything but John could tell she was trying not to laugh. "Hello Sherlock," Magenta said wearily to her brother. He inclined his head in a response but he stayed focused on the news.

"I'll just get my shoes," John said to her, brushing his hand against her back.

"Don't forget your other sock!" Magenta grinned, allowing the laugh to escape her lips.

It only took John thirty seconds to slip on his footwear. He walked quickly back to the living room, conscious that a war may start if Sherlock and Magenta are left alone for too long. In the corridor he could hear them talking, their voices low. John didn't mean to eavesdrop, but Sherlock has never cared about what people may hear him say before.

"I'm sorry," Magenta was saying, she sounded very annoyed, "_you_ are giving _me_ the talk? My own brother is telling me to watch my back if I hurt some guy!"

"John isn't just _some guy_, Magenta, he's-"

"He's what?" John could just picture Magenta placing her hands on her hips.

"He's… my friend."

"Oh Sherlock," Magenta's tone had changed completely. It was now sympathetic and caring.

The talking stopped and John took it as his cue to make an appearance.

"Ready to go?" He swung his jacket around his shoulders and slipped his arms into the sleeves as if he had heard nothing. Magenta, who was sitting on the arm of the chair, nodded and followed John to the door. She had released her hair from the hair band so that it tousled and bounced on her shoulders.

"See you later Sherlock," was John's last attempt at an amicable parting. Sherlock made some inaudible remark into the scarf around his neck but he did not look round. A sorry looking John turned away, Magenta linked in his arms, and together they left the sulking child to wallow in his rejection.


	3. Chapter 3

"So tell me, how does an army doctor end up with a guy like Sherlock?" Magenta asked when they had managed to find a table in the pub. She gently swirled the red wine in her glass.

"A mutual acquaintance introduced us." John briefly described his first encounter with Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock would get caught up in a murder the day he moves in with his flatmate. It's like the curse of the Holmes's; life can't just be easy for us." "You're not like a typical Holmes though, not that I've seen."

"No," she said quietly, "no Mycroft did his best for me."

"What does that mean?" asked John, remembering how Sherlock had said something similar the other day. Neither of them seemed too pleased about Mycroft's fatherly instinct.

"Mycroft tried to bring me up as _normal_ as possible. It was too late for him and Sherlock, with the bullying and loneliness, but I was young enough or him 'to save', as he would say. He didn't want me to have the life they had. I suppose you know all about Sherlock's childhood."

"No." John reflected for a second. "I know present Sherlock probably better than anyone, but I know nothing of past Sherlock, his upbringing, his childhood. Hell, I didn't even know he had a sister! He doesn't talk about those things."

"He wouldn't," Magenta replied, gazing dreamily off into the distance.

John, being a patient man, waited silently to allow Magenta to build up the courage to talk about her past. No doubt she was debating whether to tell him at all, considering it was Sherlock's right to decide how much John should know about his history, but it was Magenta's past too, and if she wanted him to know then why the hell should she not tell him. She took a large gulp of alcohol and drew a deep breath before beginning.

"You may have noticed Sherlock and I have a slight resemblance," she said in an almost mocking voice. John smiled and inclined his head. "Well, that is because we both inherited our dashing good looks from our father. Sherlock cannot escape his own appearance, but I know he loathes it, but he can escape mine. He does not like looking at me because I remind him of our father, and he hates our father." That last sentence was expressed with such venom that John suspected that it was not just Sherlock that hated Mr Holmes Senior. "My father was a successful businessman. A _very_ successful businessman. He devoted his life to his work and spent all his effort thinking up more ways to make money. He loved money. He loved it so much there was no love left for his wife or his children." John gently placed his pint on the table so not to disrupt her flow of words. "The stress of the work caused him to have a heart attack when I was very young, it killed him."

"Oh, I'm sorry," John mumbled. She waved it away.

"After he died nothing changed, he had such a little affect on our lives it was like he never existed. I didn't see anyone in our family shed a tear for him. I was too young to fully understand what was going on. Sherlock had been," she struggled to find the right words, "permanently damaged by the lack of love. He had no people skills and Mycroft decided that it was too late for him, he was a lost cause and he would always be like that. He had tried for a little while but Sherlock resisted with such force that Mycroft gave up on him. So instead he put all his resources into bringing my up right, give me the life they missed out on. I think Sherlock was jealous of me for that too and that's another reason he doesn't like me around."

"What about your mother?" John asked tentatively; weary that this could be a touchier subject.

"Mum," she sighed, not sure where to begin. "Mum spent most of our childhood in and out of prison." Magenta laughed at the genuine shock on John's face. "Mum, like our father, likes money. She, however, likes it in the form of jewellery, specifically other people's jewellery."

"She was a thief?"

"Still is," she shrugged. "Mycroft does his best to keep her out of trouble, but she is set in her ways and she isn't going to stop. It almost became a weekly trip to the station to pay bail and bring our mum home when we were young. I suspect that's why all three of us are involved in jobs that are on the side of justice, we feel we have to make up for all the crime she's committed." She shrugged again. "So as you can see, Mycroft basically brought Sherlock and me up."

"Ooh, what was Mycroft like as a parent?"

"Strict. He wouldn't let us do _anything_. Sherlock and I had to take turns to leave the house and cover for each other."

"God, no wonder Sherlock hates him." Magenta smiled and took another sip.

"I know he did it because he cared, but sometimes he went a little over the top. I once told him I liked this guy and (he was working in the secret service by this point) he had a background check done on the guy. The poor boy hadn't even asked me out yet!"

"I don't know how you and Sherlock put up with it!" Magenta's smile dropped instantly.

"What? What is it?"

"N-nothing, it's nothing." She shook her head as if the thought could be shook away.

"Sherlock didn't put up with it did he?" John asked, knowing his flatmate all too well.

Magenta shook her head again.

"When Sherlock was sixteen, he and Mycroft had a massive row, I don't know what about, and Sherlock ran away from home. Mycroft searched everywhere for him but when Sherlock Holmes doesn't want to be found then Sherlock Holmes will not be found." She tried to laugh but it was clear that this memory still upset her. "There was no news from him or the police until three weeks later, when we got a call from our family solicitor." Her voice broke. "Sherlock had turned up at his office demanding the money our father had put in trust for him. Mycroft immediately went to collect him and, oh John, if you had seen him! He was a mess! His clothes stank; he looked like he hadn't washed since he ran away. His eyes were all blood shot and he was barely with it."

"My god," was all John could say.

"Drugs. We had suspected Sherlock was no stranger to them but we did not realise how dependant he was until that day. Mycroft brought him home and locked him away in his room for days, maybe weeks, to get him clean. It was terrifying." John got up and took the quivering girl in his arms. These emotions must have been bottled up inside her for years, as you couldn't talk about Sherlock Holmes with just anyone. "I'm so sorry," she whispers, wiping her tears with the back of her hand and clearing her throat. "This was supposed to be a nice first date."

"It has, unless you didn't like _my_ company." She squeezed his arm.

"I've _loved_ your company."

"Good. Then let me walk you home and maybe you will consider a second date." John grinned cheekily.

"You can't walk me home, not unless you want to get the tube to the other side of London and back."

"Then I shall walk you to the station."

"No chance! You are going to say goodbye to me now and then maybe, just maybe I will consider giving you a call." She picked up her coat and matched the smile on John's face.

"You're as stubborn as a Holmes!" John joked.

"Ah funny that."

They walked to the exit and down the street. John hailed a cab and it pulled up beside them.

"Can I give you a lift to the station?"

"No, that's alright it's just round the corner." They stood awkwardly on the pavement. "Thank you, and again… er… sorry… for my outburst. Bye."

"Bye." John bent down and pecked Magenta on the cheek. They both giggled like school children as John climbed into the back of the taxi and instructed the driver to go to Baker Street. Magenta waved as the taxi pulled away and disappeared down the street.


	4. Chapter 4

"Very cosy," said a voice from the front passenger seat.

"Mycroft," John sighed, not in the least bit surprised at this intrusion. He slapped the palm of his hand on this thigh to emphasise the point.

"So," Mycroft dragged out the syllable, "not content with one Holmes, you opt for a second?" John could just picture the smug expression on his face and the thought made his stomach turn.

"I could have you too if you wanted me to," John said sarcastically. He could have sworn he heard a chuckle from the driver who had undoubtedly worked under Mycroft Holmes. This pleased John no end.

"What is your intention with my sister?" Mycroft spoke through his teeth.

"I was thinking a film maybe, or perhaps a candle lit dinner, that is how I charmed my first Holmes after all."

"Don't get smart with me John," Mycroft snapped.

"Last time I checked this was none of your business."

"Of course it is, Magenta is my sister, and Sherlock is my brother."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I know him better than you and therefore I know he will be less than happy about this."

"He gave me his blessing if you must know." Mycroft hesitated.

"And you didn't think to ask for mine?"

"Well I don't really care for yours," John shrugged.

They shifted in their seats. Both being passive aggressive, they allowed the anger to simmer as they sat in silence all the way to 221b Baker Street.

When they arrived John couldn't get out of the car fast enough. He slammed the door and stomped up the path to let himself in, shoving the key in with so much force that it almost snapped. Mycroft appeared beside him, his over sized umbrella hung loosely on his arm.

"What do you think you are doing?"

"I am coming in." John stared at him, his hand on the doorknob but refusing to open it. Mycroft sighed. "You can let me in or I will break in, either way I shall be sat in that armchair of yours in thirty seconds." John grumbled to himself under his breath as he unwillingly allowed Mycroft access to his flat.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair in his blue dressing gown and pyjamas strumming on his violin. He frowned when he realised John had not returned alone.

"What do you want?" he asked Mycroft, not looking up from his sheet music."I've come to discuss the current situation." Mycroft put on accent on 'situation' that made it obvious what he was talking about. He did not wait for an invitation as he took the seat opposite his brother. "John tells me you gave him your blessing?" Sherlock locked his jaw. "That's what I thought." He twirled his umbrella on the spot with a tongue-in-cheek expression.

"John is a good man; she could not have chosen anyone better." The tone with which Sherlock spoke could only be described as cold.

"Thank you Sher-" John began.

"This is not what I want for her; I wanted her free from this life," Mycroft interrupted.

"No I'm sorry-"

"It _is_ her life Mycroft; she can make her own decisions."

"Exactly she-"

"What like you did?"

"What do y-"

"She is not me, Mycroft, as I know you will be relieved to hear. You programmed her nicely."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Mycroft snapped, gripping tightly on the handle in his hand.

Sherlock and Mycroft did not take their eyes off each other throughout this conversation. They had completely forgotten John's presence in the room.

"Don't you think I should have a say in this?" John asked.

"No," the two men said simultaneously, mirroring each others movements as they looked at John and then back at each other.

"Well you know what? I do." The soldier-like authority with which John spoke caused the two men look properly at him with slight surprise and expectance on their faces. It was so easy to forget that John was not always the little ball of fur he allowed people to perceive. "Well… you see…" John began, not sure how to continue. "You know me, you trust me. Hell, you even checked my therapy notes when I first moved here. You know I have no ulterior motives. Secondly, Magenta is old enough to make her own decisions; it shouldn't be down to you in the first place. Thirdly," at this point John was almost shouting, talking like a father disapproving of his children's immature behaviour, "what the hell is wrong with you guys? Dating is part of a normal life, along with rejection and heartbreak, and if you really want Magenta to escape the 'Holmes curse'," he bent his first two fingers in a sarcastic action, "then you need to let her experience these things _without your interference._" John took a deep breath as he finished his speech. He waited as Mycroft blinked at him.

Mycroft stood up and towered over John so that he was more intimidating than he had ever been before, but John was unfazed by it.

"I swear to you John, if you do anything wrong by her-"

"I'll feel the wrath of the British government," he rolled his eyes; "I get it."

Without another word, Mycroft left, leaving John and Sherlock alone.

"Thanks," John said awkwardly, "for sticking up for me back there." Sherlock inclined his head and then stood up in a trance and glided to his bedroom.


	5. Chapter 5

A month or two past in 221b and Sherlock began to settle. You wouldn't say he liked the idea of his best friend and his sister dating, but he accepted it, the only response if the subject was brought up was deathly silence and one word answers. John hated it this way but he knew better than to push Sherlock's buttons. He was relieved when Lestrade handed over a cold case to distract him from it all.

"Bones John!"

"Bones?" John repeated, not quite so enthusiastically.

"The answer is with the bones, I know it!" Sherlock was pouring over various crime scene photographs and images of the skeleton found of a missing girl in the back garden of a pensioner wanting to build a conservatory. Sherlock drew out his modern magnifying glass and began to inspect the photographs for the third time.

"Is there anything I can do?" John asked helplessly.

"Shut up," was Sherlock's only reply. John inflated his chest to compensate for his lack of importance and picked up his newspaper – it was going to be a painfully quiet night.

The sound of a ring tone went off and John jumped at his phone before it disturbed the genius as he worked. It was too late, John could feel Sherlock's glare on the back of his head as he picked up.

"Hello?" John could hear deep, fast breathing, like the person on the other end had been running.

"Hello, is this Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers?"

"It is." John automatically stood up straighter, clicking his heels together.

"This is Officer Cadet Billie Joe Potter; we served together three years ago."

"Yes I remember, hello, how may I help you?"

"Please sir, can we meet? I've looked you up; I live on Princeton Road not far from you, could you come here? You were so trustworthy in the regiment, I know you would have nothing to do with this, and I haven't any proof. I just need advice on what I should do." The boy had began to babble and John did not want him to panic and change his mind about seeing him, he was clearly afraid.

"Give me half an hour, I will be there. What is the address?"

"76 Princeton Road."

"Okay, keep calm, stay there, and I will be as quick as I can."

John put the phone down and picked up his coat from the back of the chair. He opened his mouth to tell Sherlock where he was going, but he thought better of it, he had probably deduced it all from his side of the conversation anyway. He left Sherlock to his case and went off to have an adventure of his own.

The taxi pulled up to a tiny, decrepit house. John got out feeling like he should have brought his gun with him. Half of the windows were boarded up and the paint was peeling off the front door. It suddenly hit John that this was what he would have been living in on his army pension if he had not found Sherlock. It made his skin crawl.

He walked up the cracked stone path, avoiding the overgrowth, and rapped his knuckles against the door. As he did so it gave way and John realised it had been left open. _I definitely should have brought my gun._ John pushed the door open and stepped inside.

"Officer?" he called into the darkness. There was no reply. He called out again but still there was no response. John tiptoed across the hall and into the nearest room, which turned out to be the kitchen. There was a lukewarm cup of undrunk tea on the side that gave John a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. He checked the next room – the bathroom, but it too was empty. He then wandered into the living room. Again there were no signs of life. He was about to give up and go home when a black shiny object caught him out of the corner of his eye. A shoe! John manoeuvred his way around the cheap sofa and there, very still on the floor in a pool of his own blood, lay Officer Cadet Billie Joe Potter.

In an instant John had his mobile out and dialled 999. He debated calling Lestrade directly but he decided it was probably best to go through the proper channels. He did, however, decide to call Sherlock, as John would have liked the best man on the planet on the job. But Sherlock did not pick up. He probably had his phone on silent as he was already on a case and did not want to be disturbed.

John waited on the pavement outside as the sirens blared down the street and the flashing blue lights blinded him as the police arrived. Men in uniform pushed past him into the house and a man in a worn suit approached him, his hands on his hips as a sign of authority.

"Chief Inspector Davenport," he flashed his badge, "you are?"

"John Watson."

"You discovered the body?" he asked in a gruff voice.

"Yes, Officer Cadet Potter." John made a point to say his name; he never liked the idea of calling victims 'the body' or 'the deceased'. "He called me about an hour ago asking me to come over, he seemed upset about something. He didn't say what," he added before the Inspector could ask. "I came straight here and knocked to find the door open. I went in and found Potter shot, quite accurately, in the heart."

"You an expert?" Davenport mocked.

"I am an army doctor so yes," John replied quite firmly, wiping the smile off the detective's face.

"What was your relationship with the victim?" he asked, not bothering to hide the obvious dislike he had for John.

"We served together but I haven't heard from him for three years."

"And then he calls you out of the blue asking for help?"

"That's right." There was a queer expression on the detective's face, one John did not like. He looked John up and down a few times before giving a quick nod.

"Give your statement to the Sergeant over there and then you may go. Leave your contact details too just in case we need to verify anything."

Pleased to be free of the patronising DCI, John followed his instructions and was home within an hour and a half.

When he returned the flat was empty. _Sherlock must have had a breakthrough, well that's something,_ thought John. He settled down with a book as he awaited the return of his flatmate, so he could inform him of his next mystery.

The sound of a door slamming snapped the dosing John awake. Sherlock kicked off his shoes and collapsed on the sofa looking exhausted.

"What are you doing still up?" he asked without the least bit of apology for disturbing John's slumber.

"Waiting for you," John replied between stretches. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Yes. One of the bones from the left hand ring finger was found in the toe of the right foot. Obviously that is naturally impossible and once you see that then the rest is clear." He waited for John to exclaim as the solution became clear to him, but it did not come. He rolled his eyes and explained. "Once I had noticed that one bone was in the wrong place, I realised some of the other bones were slightly askew. The bones must have been moved! But they couldn't have been moved far because there were no abnormalities in the soil levels. The husband in the house next door is having a swimming pool built in his garden. Now he wouldn't be stupid enough to do that if he knew there was a dead body in the garden. But his wife…" Sherlock grinned, pleased with his most recent success. He then sat up and clasped his hands together. "Now, you never wait up for me, what is it?" John scratched his scalp, still a little bewildered at Sherlock's narrative.

"I found a dead body today."

"The Cadet?"

"Yes, how did you know?"

"That was who you were going to see wasn't it? And he was upset about something wasn't he? Or else you wouldn't have left so quickly. Did he tell you what it was?"

"No, he was killed before he could tell me."

"Stupid!" Sherlock spat. "Why is it that whenever people find things out they tell a friend and then get killed? Surely the smart thing to do is to shut up or tell me before anything happens to them?"

"Or you could tell the police?" John teased.

"You would be dead before they finished their briefing."

"Sherlock," John warned.

"Give me the details," Sherlock said, ignoring him.

John recited everything he could remember as Sherlock absorbed it all.

"It's strange," Sherlock said when John was finished.

"I know, I mean who would want to kill him?"

"No that's not what I mean. Obviously someone wanted to kill him or else he wouldn't be dead. There is no such thing as a motiveless murder. Even if you were insane, the motive would make sense to _you._ No, what's strange is that he should contact _you_ after all this time."

"It sounded like he needed help, advice!"

"Yes, but why you specifically? He must have had friends, family, _someone_ he was closer to than you. Why go to an army doctor you hadn't spoken to for three years?" Sherlock licked his lips and unconsciously brushed them against his clasped hands. "Let's sleep on it," he said as he noticed John trying to stifle a yawn, "perhaps it will be clearer in the morning."


	6. Chapter 6

John pressed the palm of his hand into his eye as he stumbled down the stairs into the living room. He was on a mission. A mission to obtain and ingest the vital substance known by some as caffeine.

"How many times had you served with him?"

John jumped, he had not noticed the consulting detective perched in the same place he had left him the night before.

"Please tell me you haven't been up all night," John groaned.

"I'm on a case," Sherlock blinked innocently. John rolled his eyes and went back on his mission, the challenge taking him into the kitchen in search of bread and tea bags.

"So?" Sherlock called from the living room.

"What?" John shouted back as he waited for the kettle to boil and the toast to pop.

"How many times have you served with Potter?" John could hear the annoyance in Sherlock's voice at being made to repeat himself.

"Just the once."

"Tell me about it." John brought Sherlock a cup of tea and then went back for his own, before sitting down and munching on his toast.

"We were in Iran patrolling the area protecting the civilians from any attacks. Nothing unusual."

"Are you sure about that?" John pulled a puzzled expression. "Absolutely nothing odd happened while you were out there?"

"No-" John hesitated. "Well…" Sherlock leaned forward eagerly. "It's probably nothing, there was a tragic accident, I'm sure it has nothing to do with this."

"John," Sherlock said calmly, "this man, a man you haven't heard from for years, called you up, afraid, and asked for your help. He could have gone to anyone, but he went to you. Therefore you must have been involved somehow, and as you only know him from your time in Iran, something must have happened out there that he found out about. Something dangerous. Something enough to kill for. Now, tell me."

John balled his left hand into a fist and relaxed it before leaning forward.

"There was an incident with one of the soldiers. He got hold of some drugs and began to hallucinate. He shot nine civilians before turning the gun on himself." Sherlock tried not to look so pleased. "We didn't know where the drugs came from, it was agreed that they were obtained from a local. But…" John hated even saying it, "there was suspicion that one of our men was the dealer. Nothing was ever proved and pressure from on high forced us to believe the first story, but I was never convinced."

"Did you voice your concerns?"

"Once or twice, but these men were risking their lives for their country, I didn't want to cause any trouble."

"So we have our motives. The motive for calling you, Potter remembered you always had doubts and so were likely to believe him, and the motive for the murder was to keep a drug dealer's identity a secret." Sherlock slapped his hands together and rubbed them greedily. "Now we are getting somewhere." He jumped up and began to make plans for the day. "We shall have to get the names of everyone in that regiment, you can do that, and Lestrade can help if necessary. Then we must go to Scotland Yard and get the details of the case, along with the details of where they are keeping the body, hopefully Bart's, so I can have a little look. John," Sherlock pointed at his flatmate, "you can get me the list while I get the files, yes?" John bit his lip. "What is it?"

"I promised I'd take Magenta out to lunch today."

Sherlock straightened his back and brushed down his suit unnecessarily.

"I see."

"Sherlock I-"

"No, it's fine. You go have your… life… I'll just be off investigating the brutal murder of _your_ friend."

"Sherlock!" John sighed, but Sherlock had disappeared out the door before he had the chance to say anything else.

Still muttering under his breath about Sherlock's childish behaviour, John opened his wardrobe and began to rummage around in the boxes at the bottom. It was where he kept most of his army things; his papers, his uniform, and his photographs. It took him a while to find the one he was looking for as he kept getting distracted by memories, good and bad. Eventually he found the photo of the group on their first day in Iran. As per tradition, everyone on the tour got together for one big photograph and then everyone got a copy to keep.

Packing everything else away, John got up and perched himself on his bed where he began to make a list of everyone in the photograph. There were nineteen of them, including himself, and they all looked as nervous as each other. Potter was so young, smiling so innocently; it made John's heart ache. John began to make the list, remembering every single one of them like they were brothers to him.

The doorbell rang and John heard Mrs Hudson answer it. He could hear voices before a series of footsteps came rushing up the stairs.

"John, John!"

John appeared in the living room as Mrs Hudson wrapped her motherly arms around him. The detective from the day before was with her, along with a collection of policemen.

"What's wrong?" he asked, holding Mrs Hudson up.

"Dr John Hamish Watson, we have a warrant to search the premises for anything that may be considered evidence in my case."

"What?" John spluttered as the DCI handed him the document. John skimmed over it before shoving it in his pocket and telling Mrs Hudson to go downstairs.

"No, I want to stay here with you, this is my flat, what are they looking for?"

"I don't think even they know. Look, I'll watch them, don't worry yourself and I will tell you anything as soon as I am told what's going on." She reluctantly went downstairs to her own flat after making John promise he would inform her later.

The policemen scattered themselves around the flat and began to pull out all the drawers and go through all the cupboards. They didn't care about the mess they were making. _Sherlock isn't going to like them disorganising his organised mess_. There was a screech from the kitchen. One of the policewomen had found a bag of ears in the fridge and had dropped it as she realised what it was.

"These are human ears," Davenport said looking disgusted.

"Yes I know, you are going to find all kinds of things in this flat like that." This did not make the detective feel any better. "No wait, let me explain. I live with Sherlock Holmes; do you know who that is?"

"Indeed I do." John was about to give a sigh of relief when Davenport said, "he is an amateur that likes to interfere with police business, and you assist him eh? You are sick, the pair of you, it's no surprise you are a murderer! The two of you enjoy it! Did he help you or did you manage this one on your own?"

John went deathly pale.

"M-murderer? You think I killed Potter?"

"Sir!" A policeman came out from the direction of John's bedroom. "I found this on his bed." He handed the detective the pile of photographs he had been looking at.

"That's the deceased!" cried Davenport as he spotted Potter immediately. "We got here just in time eh? Any longer and you would have destroyed the evidence!"

"E-evidence? You are kidding me?"

"Do you own a gun Dr Watson?"

John swallowed. "Yes sir I do." He walked over to the desk drawer and pulled out his weapon. It seemed heavy under all this stress. Davenport took it using a tissue to protect the fingerprints and sniffed the muzzle.

"This has been recently fired." He then took out the magazine and noted that one of the bullets was missing.

"Like I said, I live with Sherlock Holmes, he gets bored sometimes." Davenport raised his eyebrows. "No, I mean he shoots the wall, can't you see the bullet holes?" John pointed to the smiley face, knowing he was only digging himself into a bigger hole.

When the search was complete, the squad had found a bag of ears, two litres of blood – frozen, formaldehyde, a gun with a bullet missing, fingernails, photographs, incisor teeth, various hair samples, and a collection of chemicals that could rival any lab. John was not surprised when Davenport asked him to come down to the station for further questioning.


	7. Chapter 7

Davenport made John wait for an hour before he confronted him in the interview room at the police station. John was steaming when he finally turned up.

"Now John," he said in an overfriendly tone, "let's talk some more about Officer Cadet Potter."

"I want a lawyer," John said coldly.

"Do you need one? You aren't under arrest; you are merely assisting us with our enquiries."

"Of course I am," he rolled his eyes.

"So, tell us about your relationship with the deceased."

"I served with him in Iran three years ago. I didn't know him very well but he seemed noble and honest. I hadn't spoken to him since then, until he called me yesterday."

"Absolutely no contact until then?"

"No."

"It appears you were the last person to speak to him alive." He looked so smug, John did not like where this was going. "So no contact for three years, and then when he does contact you he dies moments later. Bit of a coincident don't you think?"

"Not at all." The detective began to scrawl down some notes. "Like I said, when Potter called me he sounded afraid, I think someone was after him, and they had to shut him up before he could blab to me."

"And what information would he have that would be worth killing for?"

"The identity of a drug dealer," John said sternly. He told Davenport of the incident in Iran.

"So Potter discovered the identity of a drug baron, he calls you and then is killed. You 'find' the body and then we discover the next day you are attempting to destroy evidence in your bedroom."

"I was just looking through my photogr-"

"You own a gun with a similar calibre as the bullet that killed him, a gun that had recently been fired, and you are more than capable of causing such an accurate hole in the chest."

All the blood drained from John's face.

"I want my phone call and my lawyer," he said quietly, looking straight ahead at nothing.

"The phones are this way."

Davenport led John to a series of phone booths and stood beside him as he dialled Sherlock's phone number.

_Please pick up please pick up please pick - _

"Hello?"

"Oh thank god, Sherlock!"

"John? Why are you calling me from a police station?"

"How did you-"

"The number that came up on the screen, it's a police number."

"Right. Of course it is."

"What's wrong?"

"I think I am about to be arrested."

"What?"

"DCI Davenport thinks _I_ killed Potter."

"Clearly this man is an idiot; I doubt he has ever solved a crime correctly, oh all those poor innocent souls rotting away in jail right now because of him."

"Yes Sherlock, not helping!"

"Where are you?"

"London Metropolitan Police Station."

"I'll be there in twenty minutes. Say nothing."

Sherlock hung up and John turned to Davenport who still looked incredibly smug.

"I want Magenta Holmes as my lawyer; can you get hold of her?" Davenport's eyes narrowed. "Oh, you've heard of her?" John asked secretly pleased.

"Yes I have, and she is incredibly picky with her cases, she will not come for you."

"Call her," John challenged, "and see if you are right."

*

"I DEMAND to see him! I am Sherlock Holmes; you cannot deny me access to the suspect in my case!"

Magenta entered the police station just in time to witness her brother causing one heck of a scene with the poor receptionist.

"Sherlock?" He spun round, a handful of leaflets about to be thrown across the floor. "What are you doing?"

"John called me, but they won't let me see him," he said angrily. "What are you doing here?"

"I am his lawyer." Sherlock stared at her for a second before the frightened receptionist squeaked.

"Excuse me, but if you are his lawyer, I can take you to your client. Is this man with you?" Magenta looked at her brother and considered.

"No."

"Very well miss, follow me."

Magenta left the room, desperately trying to ignore the fire in Sherlock's eyes as she past.

She was shown to a small interview room where John and the DCI were having a staring contest with each other.

"Magenta Holmes," she said coldly, shaking his hand for politeness only. "Do I need to say it? Charge my client or release him."

Davenport leant back in his chair and crossed his arms.

"I have reason to believe this man owns a weapon without the proper documentation. I, therefore, can hold him until I am satisfied otherwise."

"You cannot do that," John exclaimed. Davenport shrugged.

"I want time alone with my client."

Davenport rolled his eyes and got up, nodding a goodbye to the pair of them before leaving.

"Tell me everything," Magenta said the moment the door shut. She made notes as John described to her everything that had happened, including the discovery of the murder, the interview, the search of the flat, and all the things they considered as proof of his guilt. "That is all circumstantial evidence. He is clutching at straws. You are here because of a phoney excuse so that he can hold you until they get something concrete."

"Some lunch date eh?" John laughed with a sad smile.

"No worries," Magenta snapped as she pulled away when John tried to take her hand.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Well clearly there is."

"Sherlock is down the corridor causing a scene because they won't let him see you."

"Sherlock? Well, can't you do something? Say he is consulting for you or something?"

"When Mycroft warned me off you, oh don't look like that I know he warned you off me too, he told me your girlfriends left because they felt they had to compete with Sherlock. For the first time I know what he meant."

"What are y-"

"You called him John! You called him and got the police to 'request my presence as a defence lawyer for the case Dr Watson vs. the state!' You chose your flatmate over your _defence lawyer_ girlfriend!"

"Yes because I knew the police would contact you! This was the only way I could get hold of both of you. I want both of you to put aside your childish differences and get me _off this murder charge_!"

"You haven't even been charged yet, it may not even come to that-"

"I wouldn't speak so soon Miss Holmes," said Detective Davenport as he entered the room with another constable. "I have just received the results of a test done on the gun owned by Dr John Watson. The bullet found in our victim matches the test bullet fired from your gun. Your gun is the weapon that murdered Cadet Potter."

"That is impossible," John whispered.

"Dr John Watson, I am arresting you in suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, but failure to do so…"


	8. Chapter 8

"This is ridiculous!" exclaimed Sherlock for the umpteenth time as he paced back and forth in his flat. He pulled out the pen knife from the fireplace and threw it at the wall, striking the yellow smiley face right between the eyes.

"Enough Sherlock!" screamed Magenta. She could not take his tantrums anymore. When he heard John had been arrested at the police station it took the threat of being jailed and three policemen to restrain him. "Sit down!"

"Some girlfriend," he said deliberately to annoy her, even though he still obeyed her, "you hardly seem bothered at all."

"I am a lawyer; I know moaning about the situation will get you nowhere." She slammed a file on the table with a thud. "Now let's do something about this."

Before leaving the station, Magenta had managed to get hold of the Potter murder file using only a few white lies and name drops.

Sherlock snatched it up immediately and began to scan the first page.

"Shouldn't you be _defending _somewhere?" he said sarcastically.

"John isn't being interviewed until tomorrow and I intend to turn up with the proof of John's innocence in my hand," she replied coldly. The friction in the atmosphere could have been cut with a knife – if the knife wasn't currently pinned to the wall.

"I am not working with you," said Sherlock with venom.

"Oh Sherlock get over it! If I had taken you to see John you wouldn't have let me get a word in edgeways."

"If you had let me see him he wouldn't have handcuffs on his wrists right now."

"Ha! I think that is unlikely, you would probably be in then with him!"

Sherlock jumped up and started shouting at her.

"Every time you've come to me for help I have helped, every time I have delivered. I ask you for one thing and you turn your back on me."

Magenta stood and met his gaze, their faces hot with anger.

"I based my judgement on what I know as a lawyer and what I know as your sister."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you never give anyone a chance. You always have to get in there first, even when we were kids. Well not this time Sherlock, I have got this far because I am brilliant, no matter how many times you have tried to show me up or put me down, I am one of the best lawyers in England. I am sorry I cut you out, I wanted John to be my case, but I realise now that was stupid. But what I do know is that someone we both care about is about to be found guilty of a crime he did not commit and we are the only ones who can do anything about it. We need to get off our jealous high horse and do this. Both of us."

The room was still; deep heavy breathing coming from both parties just about prevented a full silence as they took a moment to cool off. Sherlock emptied the file and spread out the different pieces of information; evidence reports, analysis, autopsy report etc. They each took a pile and began to read through it all.

"We're getting nowhere Sherlock," Magenta groaned as she finished the fifth pile of papers.

"John did not murder this man and so there is a mistake in here somewhere," he replied, focused on the SOCO report.

"I know, I know, but they've got a bloody good case." She made herself her third cup of coffee and, after Sherlock refused the offer of another, picked up one of the analysis reports. "I just don't understand this gun business, before that it was just circumstantial." When Sherlock did not reply Magenta knew he wanted her to shut up and concentrate. She began to skim over the description of how the test on John's gun was done. She read it thoroughly in the hope a mistake could explain the results, but it all was perfectly legitimate. There was a photograph of the gun stapled to the paper and Magenta glanced at it, angry at how John's own weapons had betrayed him. There was another photograph of it from the other side and Magenta flicked between the two for the sake of it. She froze. Looking more intently between the two images she nudged Sherlock hard in the ribs.

"Sherlock, John showed me his gun, he told me how you left it too close to a Bunsen Burner once and a small part of the plastic handle melted didn't it?"

"So what if it did?"

"Because the handle of this gun is in perfect order," Magenta said stunned, unsure of what this meant. They stared at each other, the significance of this discovery not quite sinking in.

"We need to see John now!"

John looked exhausted as the officer escorted him from his cell to the interview room where the two Holmes' were waiting for him. Even though he looked like death, John still gave them a warn smile as he sat opposite them.

_Sherlock wasn't joking about the handcuffs, _Magenta thought as she spotted the chains binding his wrists.

Sherlock glared at the officer who was hovering beside the prisoner.

"I shall be just outside the door," he said eventually and then acted on his word. Finally alone, Sherlock quickly came out with the important question.

"What is the registration number on your gun?"

"R794 T36," John recited without hesitation. Sherlock grinned.

"They don't match."

"What doesn't match?" asked John, a flicker of hope in his eyes.

"Yes, what doesn't match?" DCI Davenport stood in the doorway with his arms crossed and his eyebrows raised. "I was informed you were here, thought I'd better make sure everything was alright. Well?"

"The registration number on this gun and the one you will find in John's records." Davenport did not look as pleased as Magenta did.

"So?" he shrugged. "It is possible to own more than one gun, he did hand it over to me willingly."

"Did you find another when you searched my flat?"

"Ah, you must be the infamous Sherlock Holmes, I'd say it's a pleasure but to be honest I think you are an accomplice in this crime. But since I cannot prove it, I'll make do with Dr Watson."

"John did not kill anyone," spat Sherlock.

"Oh, is this a confession?"

"Detective Davenport," Magenta shot up, giving him her hardest lawyer glare, "I am trying to talk to my client in private." She stuck her nose up. Davenport put his hands in the air and backed out of the room. The three of them pressed their heads together in a whisper to ensure they weren't overheard.

"Nice try guys," sighed John, the small light of hope extinguished.

"This man is a philistine! He will not listen until we hand him the murderer on a plate."

"Then that's what we must do. John, do you have the list of men in the regiment?"

"I was making it when _he _showed up. If you have a copy of the photograph and the list in the file I can finish it now, he took it as evidence."

Magenta fished out the items and John completed the list of names, which was not easy when your hands are handcuffed together. He pushed the paper over to Sherlock when he was finished with a sad smile, knowing they would be leaving now.

"We will come back for you," Magenta vowed as she kissed John on the cheek. Sherlock only needed to twitch his lip for John to know he would not let him down.


	9. Chapter 9

"We need Lestrade," Sherlock said as they stepped onto the pavement and hailed a taxi.

It took some time to get the information they needed. First Lestrade needed to be convinced that Sherlock had a sister, then he needed to be convinced that John had been arrested for murder, then he needed to be persuaded that someone could break into Sherlock's flat and swap the gun for another without Sherlock noticing ("Why should I suspect anything was amiss? Besides, John should have hidden his gun better,"), and _then_ he needed to be calmed down when he realised that one of his own was stupid enough to think John guilty. He wanted to storm the police station and take over the case but Sherlock told him it would take too long, he insisted giving him the information he needed would help John much more.

Eventually Sherlock and Magenta were given the names from the list that were currently not fighting for queen and country, along with their phone numbers and addresses. There were six of them in all.

"I can find out their alibis if you like," offered Lestrade.

"How long would that take?"

"You could have them tomorrow afternoon probably."

"That's too long," snapped Magenta as she pulled out her mobile and dialled the first number on the list. "Hello is that Mr Wallis?... Mr Wallis I am sorry to inform you that tomorrow morning your car will be towed and crushed due to the fact that you were illegally parked in Coventry yesterday evening." Both Lestrade and Sherlock raised their eyebrows at Magenta, one looking surprised and the other looking proud. "Mr Wallis I am not going to call the tow truck off because you claim you weren't in Coventry at the time… I do have proof… Very well sir, if you insist I can have my men double check for you. Can I have the make, model, and licence plate of the cars at your residence please." She quickly jotted his reply down. "Thank you sir, I will have this checked for you… You're welcome… Bye now." Magenta did not hide the fact that she was pleased with her unorthodox methods as she handed Lestrade a scrap of paper with Mr Wallis' car information on it. "There must be CCTV near Potter's place; can you search them to see if this car was there?"

"I will put someone on to it right now," Lestrade replied, still quite stunned at Magenta's ingenuity. _She is definitely a Holmes._

"One down, five to go!"

Magenta repeated the process with the other names on the list. All but one freely gave over their details, and the only reason the sixth person didn't was because he was holidaying in Spain for the week with his wife, so could not have committed the crime anyway.

It was late and the computer whiz who was doing the search insisted on being paid over time. Sherlock had promised Mycroft would make a generous donation to Scotland Yard for assisting his brother in his enquiries, and so Lestrade agreed to the terms.

*

"Sir!" Lestrade was shoved awake by Sherlock as the computer was making beeping noises like it was proud that it had found a match.

"The car belongs to a Sergeant Peterson and was seen two roads away from the scene during the window of opportunity you've given me."

"Pull up his file," ordered Lestrade. Sherlock beat him to the screen and speed read the information.

"He has spent a lot of time in Mexico and Afghanistan in his own time, but he has no family connections there. He is our guy."

"I will get a warrant for his arrest."

"Can you do that?" asked Magenta, aware that interfering in another cop's case was frowned upon.

"I am a DI of Scotland Yard, of course I bloody can!"

"Try Judge Paxman," Sherlock added innocently, "he owes me a favour."

*

Warrant in hand, Lestrade knocked on the door of Sergeant Peterson's home. A tall, big boned man answered.

"Sergeant Peterson?"

"Yes?"

"I have a warrant here for your arrest." The man did not even flinch. "Turn around please." Lestrade put the man in handcuffs as he read him his rights. When he was done Peterson said to him,

"I will say nothing without my lawyer present."

"Well that can be arr-"

"I want Magenta Holmes; tell her she owes a friend of mine a favour, Dominic Chaplain."

Magenta burst into laughter, Peterson looked furious.

"Some friend you are! Chaplain died years ago!"

"I'm sorry but I don't think it is your decision to make."

"Actually it is." She straightened herself up and formally introduced herself. "Magenta Holmes, defence lawyer, and just because I was unable to prove Chaplain's son innocent doesn't mean I owed his father anything." Peterson snarled at her. "I am afraid I cannot take your case at the moment because I am currently proving the innocence of Dr John Watson."

Peterson's eyes widened and at that moment Sherlock knew they had him. He shoved past him to assist with the search for any evidence that could strengthen the case. Magenta also forced her way past him, 'accidentally' kneeing the man in the crotch in the process.

"Oops," she smiled sweetly, "sorry!" Her eyes shone with glee, satisfied with her own small, personal revenge, and Peterson reeled in pain.

A search of the house turned up John's missing gun, traces of cocaine and heroin, and GSR on a shirt in the laundry basket, splashed with droplets of Potter's blood. There was more than enough evidence to convict him and so, perhaps with a little persuasion from Scotland Yard, Davenport was forced to release John.

Sherlock and Magenta were waiting in the reception area of the police station as Davenport appeared with his tail between his legs.

"My apologises," he said through gritted teeth. "Believe it or not I only wanted to put a killer behind bars."

"We understand," Sherlock replied, with a less than understanding expression. Davenport, who did not like grovelling, felt like he had given a sufficient apology and left through the door he came. "Idiot."

The door opened again. There was no mistaking that soldier-like posture, the checked shirt and jeans, the sandy hair, and the pink lips stretched into a dazzling smile.

Magenta ran into John's arms, embracing him with such passion that John thought she would never let go! But she soon did, sort of; she kept her arm around his waist as she led him over to Sherlock.

The two men nodded at each other in an unemotional, manly way. Then one of them, they will always argue which, burst into a fit of laughter, which set the other one off. Sherlock patted his best friend on the shoulder and suggested they should leave as police stations were not the most appropriate place to be laughing.

"Do you know what? I'd kill for some chips!" said John as they walked down the high street.

"Don't let DCI Davenport hear you say that," teased Magenta.

"I know a great carvary that does the best chips in London," suggested Sherlock. "You know they are the best because of the number '1' on the till."

"Sounds good to me," grinned John as he followed Sherlock's lead.

Magenta stopped and pushed her messy black hair out of her eyes.

"I'm going the other way, have a good meal," she kissed John's cheek and waved goodbye to Sherlock before turning and walking towards the train station. _Back to the way we were then,_ she thought sadly to herself. Of course she'd never want John to be arrested again, but she had enjoyed spending time with her brother. It had almost felt like they were a family.

The sound of her name made her spin round and almost crash into Sherlock as he caught up with her.

"Magenta," he huffed as John arrived next to him looking just as puzzled as she did. "I was wondering… you know, if you wanted to… would you like to have dinner with us?"

Magenta gasped, unable to speak. She nodded, afraid that if she opened her mouth all the emotions she was trying to contain would come pouring out. Because she knew this was not an invitation to dinner, this was an invitation into Sherlock's life, and as his sister, that was all she ever wanted.


	10. Epilogue

Mycroft wrinkled up his nose as he looked down at the meal he had just been provided with. When he had been invited to dinner with Sherlock, John and Magenta, and been told Sherlock had offered to cook, he had not expected to be served McDonalds.

"Let's just say the oven will need to be replaced," John whispered when Mycroft had opened his mouth to ask. He pulled his blazer around his chest as he tucked himself into the table, handing Magenta the ketchup when she asked for it.

Mycroft knew this gathering was to prove to him that the relationship between his sister and his brother's flatmate could actually work without one of the Holmes's biting the head off the other. His suspicions were confirmed the moment John and Magenta began to show an excessive amount of affection, the kisses on the cheek, the 'love' and 'sweetheart' pet names, and the side glances at himself to make sure he was watching. Honestly it made his skin crawl, but the fact that they were trying was a point in their favour.

Sherlock, too, was doing his best to encourage Mycroft's approval of the relationship. Although he wasn't being overly happy like the other two, he _had_ been restraining himself more than usual. Not taking the bait of Mycroft's constant jabs and refraining from making Mycroft the butt of his jokes when normally he would have liked to. Mycroft could tell when he was holding himself back because his lips would turn pale and thin, stretching out across his face.

Sherlock was mechanically munching on a chip, his eyes glazed over and his eyebrows furrowed. No doubt he was trying to work out what went wrong with the lasagne in the oven, and why John has insisted on buying a new one when Sherlock had tried to persuade him it just needed to be cleaned up a bit. Mycroft eyed his own dinner once more and pinched the bread of his deli sandwich, lifting it slightly so he could inspect the inside. It smelled of grease and additives. He closed it up again and opted to have a chip instead.

"Do you not like it Mycroft?" asked John. "I have a Big Mac if you would prefer that?" John offered it to him. Somehow the burger looked even more unappetising than his own and he quickly but politely put his hand up.

"No, no thank you, I am just not very hungry." Out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft saw Sherlock's lips go thin and pale.

The sound of a song Mycroft did not recognise – too rock 'n' roll and modern for him – blared from Magenta's coat pocket and apologising she got up to answer her mobile. She mimed a quick 'sorry' to her brother – something she would never have done if they weren't trying so hard to impress him – before leaving the room to take the call.

"Another drink Mycroft?" John did not wait for an answer as he topped up his glass with a reasonably expensive bottle of red wine. "I think tonight has really shown that it is possible for more than one Holmes to be in the same room at once without-"

"Okay John, please stop!" Mycroft rubbed his forehead unable to take the falseness any longer. "You have never asked for my approval, in fact when it came to Sherlock you made it clear you did not care for my approval at all. So would you please stop acting like this is 'happy families'."

John straightened himself up and pursed his lips. "We just thought, Magenta and I, that if we could show you how happy we were, and how there was no problem between her and Sherlock, perhaps you wouldn't be so obviously disapproving of the relationship." Mycroft crossed his legs and waited for the speech that John had been preparing in his mind all evening to state his case that he knew was coming. "You are her brother, you are pretty much the father figure in her life, and so you are bound to be protective of her, and I completely understand that. But it upsets her to think that being with me makes you unhappy, and the last thing I want is for her to be upset. You know me, you've had me checked out, and I can hardly lie to you! You know that I would do anything for her and I would give my life to protect her. So all I ask is that you would just stop being so stubborn and tell her you are happy for her."

Mycroft did not respond immediately. He peered at John through pierced eyes as he digested the speech he had just heard. Then, very slowly, he bowed his head. John was not quite sure if this meant 'okay I will do as you ask' or 'okay I hear your argument but I will not do as you ask', but Mycroft gave no more indication as to which of the two he meant.

Magenta returned to the room, oblivious of what had just happened.

"There is an emergency at work, I'm really sorry but I have to go." She was apologising more to Mycroft than anyone else.

"That's okay," said John as he handed her her coat. "Let me walk you to the station." She smiled at him before saying goodbye to her brothers.

"It was good to see you," she added to Mycroft, "John is a real gentleman walking me to the station." She really wasn't very good at this 'trying hard to impress him' business. "He looks after me."

Mycroft placed his hand on her shoulder. "I know he does." He held her gaze. Blinking back tears she pecked him on the cheek, giving him a look that said 'thank you'.

When they had left, he and Sherlock retired to the armchairs in the living room. The looks exchanged between them were more of a conversation than they had had all evening. Mycroft handed Sherlock a glass of port that he had been kind enough to bring along with him. Sherlock took it, clinking their glasses before having a taste.

"Are you going to take the tail off them then?" Sherlock quietly asked with a smirk, swirling his drink in his hand before taking another sip.

Mycroft matched the action.

"We'll see."


End file.
